After a rigorous day of riding your tricycle, you will eschew the typical Gatorade rehydration plan, and instead ingest a quart of paint thinner. Rejuvenated, you will hit the beach for several hours of night para-sailing. Exhausted, you will crawl into bed at five thirty in the morning, where you will fall into a deep sleep, and begin to drool. By nine fifteen, the puddle of spit will be so deep, you will drown in it. Queen Elizabeth will deliver the eulogy at your funeral, and one of her corgis will wee on your coffin, on behalf of small dogs the world over.

Your friends set you up on a blind date with a Megan Fox look-a-like and you are so happy that you completely ignore her Adams apple until it's too late. When all is revealed you are driven mad with frustration and unable to cope with everyday life, forgetting to feed your 'wee' little dogs. The fattest one is the first to strike, taking your nose. You choke and gargle on your blood as the others join in.

You log onto your computer one evening to enjoy a few Halloween-related posts, when you come across Andy and Spooky having yet another Star Trek discussion. Andy is enumerating the ways in which Trekdom is reverential to the elderly, and Spooky is outlining how the entire franchise is a metaphor for the evil administration of Darth Obama. In your haste to get away from your computer screen before your eyes melt, you fail to see the huge tub of candy corns sitting just behind your chair, and in you fall. Determined to eat your way out, you make it five minutes before your body goes into sugar shock, and you die. Your daughter grows up to avenge your death by tracking down Andy and Spooky, tying them to chairs, and breaking all their toys in front of them.

You are sitting at the breakfast table, trying to read the nutritional information on your jar of Metamucil, but your eyesight just ain't what it used to be, back in the days when pop cost a nickel and penny candy was only a penny. So you reach for your reading glasses, failing to see the brown recluse spider that leaps onto your hand and bites you. You swat at it with your cane, and then, grabbing hold of your walker, you hobble out into the street, screaming in terror and literally cr@pping your pants. But, since you are wearing your trusty Depends (now crusty as well), nobody notices you, and ignores you completely, as most people do when it comes to the screaming elderly.

Luckily, your poor, geezerly slow circulation keeps the spider venom from getting to your heart very quickly, which unfortunately leaves you plenty of time to wander into oncoming traffic. You never even hear the bus that hits you and smashes you flat.

Thank you for allowing the bus to take me quickly instead of the slow, lingering death you originally chose.

Having just picked up his anti-schizophrenia meds from the free clinic, Mac decides to kill an hour or four before his appointment to sell his blood down at the local donor center.

His first stop is the local check-cashing service to get his weekly dole, followed by a visit to the public library to browse the latest editions of Mother Jones and the New York Times.

Unbeknownst to him however, is that the previous patron was infected with what can only be descried as hyper-MSRS, and who was also was a finger-licking page-turner.
Mac had left his Purel and surgical gloves at home. "What the heck" he tragically surmised, "It's early, and I'm probably the first one here today"! and proceeded to dig in.

When he finished getting his daily dose of leftist diatribe he was feeling a bit peckish and decided to see what the dumpster behind the McDonald's had to offer.

Score!! 2 half eaten McChickens a most of a chocolate shake!!

Following this gastronomic extravaganza, his palms began to itch. "Strange, it must be a full moon tonight" he thought.

Hurriedly returning to his apartment above a funeral parlors embalming wing, he though it prudent to do his post-public germicide regimen.

He grabbed the bleach and S.O.S. pad and began scrubbing his hands and tongue.

Despite his best efforts he only succeeded in opening up more of his skin surface area, driving the lethal combination of flesh-eating bacteria and salmonella deeper into him system.

In a few hours he was nothing more than a quivering, gelatinous mass weeping pus through what remained of his rheumy eyes as he breathed his final, gurgling breath, wishing he had never voted democrat.

All you that doth my grave pass by,
As you are now so once was I,
As I am now so you must be,
Prepare for death & follow me.

One day, Witchy found that the best way to make money from home was to make poisons in her kitchen, and sell them to passive aggressive women over the internet. She made tons of money and the cops never linked her to any murders despite overwhelming evidence of PayPal receipts. Deciding to retire early, Witchy moved to Canada, packing all her poisons with her, just in case. She got to her new cabin very late at night and found that the movers had unloaded everything and left it in neat piles around her living room. Being very tired, Witchy decided to sleep on the couch instead of unpacking the towering boxes to find her bedding. Then a bear broke down the door, mauled her head off and ate her. Because she moved to Canada and there are bears all over the place. The poisons didn't help because bears only drink human blood. So she wasted all that time packing them.
The End.

Ciuin was never one to shirk civic responsibility. I mean, who amongst us will ever forget the Boy Scout Jamboree of "98?

Fast-forward to the present day:

While cruising about on her fire-engine red tricycle one brisk autumn day with not a care in the world, from the distance our vigilant hero heard the piteous 'mieaux' of a newborn kitten coming from the French Quarter.

"Gracious! Whatever could be the matter?" she exclaimed; "I must investigate!"

Girding herself with a shot (okay, 3) of bourbon for what lay ahead, she tricycled on with fresh determination.

Turning off of Basin street and into the old bone yard she quietly made her way past several crypts to the angelic 'Larry' who departed this Earth after only 2 short years.

Again, 'mieaux' but now loud and clear.

"Where are you kitty?" inquired our fearless citizen, always vigilant to those in need of assistance.

"Mieaux", replied the kitten.

Looking up to the top of Larry's head she spotted the wayward feline, perched upon a wing and unable to navigate down to safety. The cat had earlier been deposited there by a ravenous hawk who had decided instead, to snack upon a plump chihuahua that it had spotted in the graveyard.

"Viola!" Ciuin cried "I shall rescue you!"

Reaching up she liberated the animal, and tucking it safely inside the tricycles wicker basket, proceeded back onto Basin.

Immediately she was struck by a bus full of rowdy Scot tourists, because she was plastered, and entered into the oncoming lane.

All you that doth my grave pass by,
As you are now so once was I,
As I am now so you must be,
Prepare for death & follow me.

I think I've got it sussed this time. While reading his Oxford English Dictionary, Andy fails to notice the Zombie Apocalypse has begun, just outside his window. So engrossed is his brain in it's absorption of new and exotic vocabulary, it is a full two minutes before it realizes it has been pulled from Andy's skull and eaten by a zombie that looks like Ben Kingsley.